


Little Fly

by TheDreamTailor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDreamTailor/pseuds/TheDreamTailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is slowly taking down Moriarty's web piece by piece. But when the Golem is his next target, things get out of hand quickly.</p>
<p>Written for a prompt in the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme: </p>
<p>The Golem/Sherlock non-con. Sherlock would be totally helpless. The Golem wouldn't kill him, in the end, but he would be very seriously injured. <br/>Maybe as an alternative to events in The Great Game, or maybe they meet again later. <br/>No one intervenes, no one is there to help or to watch him suffer, he just has to go through it alone and then someone finds him in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Fly

Vauxhall Arches

How nostalgic, Sherlock mused as he dipped in and out of the shadows cast by the great buttresses. Purple neon light bounced off the brickwork, cast from the shady, nightclub laden city above. The dull throb of music echoed down below, and Sherlock could feel the thrum of the bass in his chest. Three years ago, in this exact spot, was where he and John had come after receiving a tip off from the homeless network: scouring the same dirty pavement and hunting the exact same name, albeit for different reasons. However this time, John wasn’t accompanying him into the decrepit architecture. He was alone, and had been for a while.

It had been just over a year ago that Sherlock took the final step, took the plunge to the cold hard reality that he had to leave everything behind him, leaving John just as broken and mangled as the dummy on the pavement. Between struggling with his relapse addiction to cope with the complete degradation of his life, Sherlock was slowly but surely dismantling Moriarty’s web. Corner by corner, cutting the loose threads left behind by the madman he almost had come to admire. One lead had led to the next, and soon enough he was tracking down a curiously familiar enemy: Oscar Dzundza…

…Otherwise known as the Golem.

He always thought of the Golem as the one that successfully evaded him. Responsible for the murder of several people on English soil, Sherlock was familiar with his handiwork immediately when it came across his path. The ugly dark red bruises, crushed windpipes, desecration of the body: the Golem was nothing but efficient and precise in the art of asphyxiation. Sherlock absentmindedly touched the side of his neck. He himself had been on the receiving end once, and the bruises round his neck and mouth had persisted for weeks. 

A crash echoed through the arches, startling him, and his hand flew to his pocket, where he kept a small handgun. Off in the distance a drunk, scraggly looking man swinging a bottle of red like a cricket bat stumbled off. Slowly Sherlock took his hand from his pocket, dragging his fingers across the cool metal trigger, and took a deep breath to slow his heart rate. Then he moved on.  
In the year that Sherlock had spent away from Baker Street already, he had become a lot less calm and in control. Moriarty was right when he said John made him weak. He had softened, allowing John to become his rock and root. When John came into his life he slowly lost the rebellious and fearless demeanor, letting it be replaced by worry and caring about consequences. Now he couldn’t get it back. Sherlock had changed, and he hated it now that he was alone again.

He came across a small pile of fresh rubbish: a cheap meal and the scent still lingering in the air. He was getting closer, no doubt the Golem would soon be aware of his presence. It wasn’t much of a presence in his own mind, he thought. Sherlock’s hair had become a bit shaggier now that he cut it himself. He missed the luxury of clean suits, instead now adorned in dark jeans and a hoodie which were in dire need of a wash. He still had his coat, the one comfort he had managed to escape with, but even it was beginning to show the telltale signs of wearing. If he wasn’t holed up in someone’s guest room he was sleeping rough with the unfamiliar homeless. It almost felt as if now he was hunting a shadow of himself in the dark.

A rat skittered down the gutters, disturbed from its hiding hole. Sherlock was suddenly on alert again. His eyes picked up the subtle traces, inhumanely large footprints in the dirt, loose garbage overturned from a hurried escape. Somewhere in the shadows a giant lurked.

“I know you’re here, _Oscar_ ,” Sherlock spat the name, his voice echoing back to him. He took the gun from his pocket, aiming it at the shadows and walking in tight circles as he moved forward, pointing the barrel at every minute noise. “The game is nearly over; let’s finish it once and for all.” He cocked the gun, the clicking deafening in the emptiness of the arches.

A huff of air sounded from behind him, and Sherlock spun around, only to see the gangly man retreat back into the darkness. “Come out of the shadows, Golem!”

A footfall to his left, and Sherlock didn’t waste time turning toward it and firing off a shot. He heard a grunt, his bullet having found a mark. Gun raised, Sherlock inched forward. The area was empty save for a few fresh droplets of blood soaking in the ground. He flattened himself against an arch, listening intently, and waiting for the white face to shine back at him from the corner.

Suddenly a painful weight crashed into his arm, and the gun fell to the floor and clattered a few feet. Sherlock tried to make a dive for it, but a hand fisted into his coat collar and he was ripped back. Sherlock struggled to turn, hearing the fabric tear as he tried to squirm out of the Golem’s grasp. The man towered above him, with his hips at equal height to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock threw a fist, but it only grazed his face, thick and deformed by giant bones. He could see the tear in the giant’s jacket where the bullet had just skimmed his shoulder.

The Golem snarled, his hands reaching for purchase around the detective’s neck, but Sherlock was quicker, and batted them away as soon as they came near. Frustrated, the Golem charged forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and arms, lifting him almost a meter in the air. Then he began to squeeze, and Sherlock felt the air being forced from his body. He’ll snap my spine, the detective thought desperately. Using all the energy he could muster, he threw a knee into the Golem’s groin, and with a howl was dropped unforgiving to the ground.

Taking deep gulps of air, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and began crawling toward the gun. He was an arm’s length away when he felt one of the Golem’s feet pressed down against his back, shoving his chest to the floor. The arm he had outstretched toward the weapon was cruelly wrenched back and up, and Sherlock felt the joint rip from its socket.

Sherlock screamed, feeling the white hot pain flood his system as he clutched his useless arm to his side. The Golem kicked the gun away, and it skittered to a stop beneath a rubbish skip. The Golem flipped him onto his back, his long, crooked fingers finding a hold around Sherlock’s neck. There wasn’t much pressure behind it, more to hold the detective down than to suffocate him. Sherlock released his shoulder and dug the nails of his uninjured hand into the Golem’s arm with little success. 

“I…Remember…you,” the Golem sounded the words out from his massive jaw. His voice was deep and hollow with a thick western European accent. “Little…fly…”

He pressed his other hand against Sherlock’s shoulder, causing him to cry out again. Sherlock glanced at the hand: It was raw and red between the fingers from a recent hit.

“Who was it…this time?” Sherlock managed to gasp out. “Moriarty is dead…who’re you taking orders from…ngh.”

The Golem let out a breathy chuckle as he slowly applied pressure, crushing the detective’s throat. Black spots began to dance across Sherlock’s vision.

“Not for flies to know,” He grinned, his square, yellow teeth shining in the dark. 

Sherlock drew his knees back and kicked the Golem in his midsection, sending him tumbling back. Feeling his esophagus open, he coughed and choked in the dank air, feeling the indents of the Golem’s fingers burning into his throat. The Golem was quick though, and scrambled to his long legs. Bending down, he grasped both of Sherlock’s ankles and pulled him toward him. Straddling the younger man’s hips, he locked his own lanky legs with Sherlock’s, and pinned his good arm to the ground beside his head, effectively stilling the detective’s squirming body.

“Fly has bite,” the Golem panted out. “But I cannot squish.”

“Who is it?” Sherlock asked, “I know there’s a right hand man.” The Golem threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and slammed his head on the pavement. His vision went blurry and his eyes glazed over. The black spots were soon replaced by stars…supernovas…

“Yes. He gives message to me. I do not kill you,” the Golem said as he lowered his massive face to Sherlock’s ear, “I kill Virgin.” And with that he slowly ground his hips into Sherlock’s, eliciting a strained gasp from the detective beneath him.

“W-what…” Sherlock panicked, and jerked violently, trying to free his legs from the giant to no avail. He was quickly aware of every part of the Golem’s anatomy that was pressed into his body, and felt bile rise in his throat.

“Don’t worry. As they say in your country, I am ‘big man,’” and he smirked at his own sick joke. 

“No, stop-” Sherlock tried to protest, but the Golem released the detectives arm and slapped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, muffling his shouts, fingers digging into his jaw and cheeks. Sherlock flailed his arm, clawing, scratching, but could only reach to the Golem’s upper arm and no father. 

The Golem snorted off his attempts, and slowly resumed rocking his hips against Sherlock’s, the friction of their denim trousers creating an intimate heat. “No buzzing, little fly. It is good thing I give,” and he pressed down hard. Sherlock could feel the giants hardening cock press into his hip, and an undesired response pooling in his own gut.

“Now be still,” the Golem said almost soothingly as his other hand joined the one on Sherlock’s mouth, and cut off his nasal passage. Sherlock tried to concentrate, to hold his breathe, but his panic only made his body consume more oxygen. His lungs cried for air and filled with a slow burning. His impulse to breathe caused him to attempt to draw oxygen, but with his airways closed, his chest only jerked, unable to fill itself. Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and just as he was on the brink of unconsciousness, the Golem released his hold.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize he’d been let go, but he sharply drank in the air with raspy wheezes. He was dazed and high from the lack of oxygen, His body feeling light and sore. Sherlock’s head lolled to the side, eye’s half lidded and a quiet ringing in his ears.

Using the moment of recuperation he allowed, the Golem unzipped himself, his large penis swelling red and hard. He then shucked Sherlock’s trousers and pants halfway down his thighs, but kept the rest of him clothed. At the feeling of cool air, Sherlock bolted upright, only to be mercilessly pushed back to the ground by his own spinning vision. He felt the giant’s cool hand on his own flaccid length and once again his body began to betray him, the touch sending shivers racing up and down his spine.

“See. Is good.” The Golem drawled, and he rutted his erection against Sherlock’s inner thigh as he rubbed the detectives cock, his calloused hands too rough, too dry, driving him into a floor that was too hard. Sherlock failed to silence a low whimper as his body reacted to the stimulus. 

“No…No…” but the Golem continued, sweeping his thumb over the glans. He lined their erections up, slicking his hand with pre-come, and wrapped his large hand around both of their lengths, stroking roughly. Sherlock felt the electricity race through him and his back arched upward. The Golem maneuvered his free arm between this new space, his hand grasping Sherlock’s buttock as he lifted the detective hips off the floor and closed the distance between their chests. 

The proximity being lessened, Sherlock dug his nails into the Golems shoulder where the bullet grazed, but the oversized man only hissed, the pain apparently adding to his pleasure. His own shoulder screamed in pain as it was jolted by the thrusting. The giant swiveled his hips as he grinded the detective, and to his shame, Sherlock let his mouth fall open in ecstasy. He tried to retreat into his Mind Palace, tried to be anywhere else, but not even the thought of being in John’s arms rather than the Golem’s could block the reality of the situation. 

Sherlock felt the hand on his arse wander south, and a finger was roughly jammed inside his entrance. He bit his lip tasting blood and bile, but his arousal refused to wilt while the Golem stroked him. It hurt, burned as the giant pushed his finger in farther, pulled it back, and repeated. Without warning he added a second, and began scissoring his entrance. His long fingers had no trouble finding his prostate, and Sherlock’s body went numb. The detective now held on for dear life, his hand fisted in the back of the giant’s jacket, pained moans escaping him. The build was becoming too much as the Golem roughly stroked the gland along with jerking their cocks together, and Sherlock felt his nerves finally explode. With a strangled cry and jerking legs he came, orgasm pulsing through him and sucking him under a deep wave of bliss and humiliation.

But the Golem wasn’t finished yet. “Too soon, little fly,” he panted. His ministrations didn’t stop, and soon Sherlock’s sensitive penis was hurting from the rubbing. He writhed beneath the giant, it hurt, it was too much, and the head of the detectives cock was glowing red and angry from the painful overstimulation.

Removing his fingers, the Golem lined up his penis with Sherlock’s entrance and pushed in dry. A whole new world of pain opened up and Sherlock felt himself slowly ripping in half and the Golem sunk himself into the detective, only reaching about halfway before he could go no further. Tears stung Sherlock’s eyes and rolled across his temples. It felt completely wrong, like he was impaled and still alive. He wished he could die, right there. Warm blood trickled down the back of his thighs. The Golem leaned back, his large hands abandoning his back and friction burned cock to settle around his neck once more, and he squeezed as he thrusted lazily. He look at Sherlock with disgusting, lusty eyes as the detective drew shallow, winded breaths beneath his thumbs. 

_Squeeze harder_ , Sherlock wanted to beg, crush my throat. _End it…_

The Golem thrust once more, deeply, and Sherlock felt a hot burst mix with the blood. He pulled out, panting and sweating, and his thumbs pressed down on Sherlock’s pharynx hard one last time, hard enough to leave deep bruises, and let go. He stood up, tucking himself in.

“Moran will be happy. Job is done.”

Sherlock didn’t notice the Golem slip back into the shadows, disappearing, but merely lay there in a state of shock. Slowly he curled onto his side and wrapped his coat around him.  
John, he wanted to call out. Mycroft, Lestrade, anyone…Lestrade, to keep his mind off it. He wanted Mycroft to send the Queen and all her men after the Golem. He wanted John to be there, to bury his face in his jumper, to hear him call him an idiot. To feel him move as he fretted, his worrying eye’s fixed on him.

Everything hurt, and he felt sick and weary with shame and disgust. An eerie emptiness settled about him as the bass of the clubs above continued to pound in his head.

_Somebody…_

But no one was there. Not anymore. He had given it all up. 

No one was coming.


End file.
